


After The Fact

by glespa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: All is not well, Angst, Coping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Trauma, not sure why rowling tried to end it like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:37:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23509447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glespa/pseuds/glespa
Summary: The war ends. And yet, inexplicably, it does not.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 5
Kudos: 44





	After The Fact

Ginny can no longer sleep alone. 

If she thinks hard enough, she can trace her memory back to a time where isolation was a gift. In a home of six brothers, she remembers being very adamant about her own room. Remembers drawing a large red line across the doorway, shoving a finger at Ron (who is shorter than her at the time) and telling him not to cross. 

She stole it in pieces, the solitude. Bit by bit, wherever she could — taking in the brief moment of silence, wrapped in the sanctity of her own bedroom, reveling in the space being absolutely filled with things that were _hers_ before Fred or George or one of her brothers broke her out of the reviere. 

Now, she sleeps with her hand interlocked with Harry’s. Even when he tosses and turns in bed, she manages to cling to his left hand. When Tom Riddle’s breath hovers too close to the space on her neck behind her ear, she switches hands and turns to stare at her husband’s body in the dark. 

She traces her fingers up and down his, careful not to wake him because full nights of sleep for him are rare, as well. When her heart beats a bit too loudly in her throat, she calms herself by counting from his thumb to his pinky. _One, two, three, four, five._ And again. _One, two, three, four, five._

He sleeps completely silently, save for his nearly imperceptible breaths. And in the moonlight, Ginny forces herself to look. And remind herself that he _is_ there. 

She touches him whenever she can, throughout the day as well. Rubs his shoulders as she passes him in the dining room table. Brushes her fingers along his back when he dresses. Cups his jaw while he’s cooking dinner. As if somehow, it will make up for the time lost. 

It is an insatiable thirst, this need to touch. She holds his hand on the street. Touches his knee with hers as they take a seat on bus in Muggle London. Leans close at night, resting her head on his shoulder. Pretending that there wasn’t a time she couldn’t do this. 

Kiss his cheek. 

There she lies, Hannah Abbott nestled next to her as they hide from the Carrows in the Room of Requirement overnight, trying not to think of the punishment that is bound to come anyway. 

Arm around his shoulder. 

There she sits, eyes cast up at the sky, pleading to whoever is listening. Hoping that he hasn’t been caught for just another day. Muffling the sound of her weeping into her pillow. 

Bump his hip. 

There she stands, clinging to Neville’s hand, praying he makes it through the night. Refusing to let go as Hannah comes in to change his bandages, her own tears pooling at the edges of her eyes. 

Some days she hardly notices it. Some mornings, she wakes and only has a brief moment of panic at the sight of his disappearance before the smell of bacon hits and she relaxes. 

Other times, it comes crashing down on her, roaring in her head. Tom Riddle cradles her from behind, and blows thoughts in her brain. And she can’t fight the urge to clasp on to him. She does it while he’s handing her the cereal box, grabbing his wrist tighter than it must be comfortable. 

Tonight is other times. Tonight she holds him close to her body, wrapping her arms around his waist, and breathes in everything that makes him Harry. She counts his fingers. And yet, some nights, she still cannot quite convince herself. 

  
  


Ron fills it with noise. 

To be clear, he’s not quite sure what it is he’s filling, either. But it’s there, gaping and obvious. And so he fills it. 

Hermione claims she’s never seen him go through this much parchment, not even in the year Snape would assign homework never shorter than three feet. He sends letter after letter. They have two owls. 

His mum is ecstatic — she tells him one Christmas that she wishes he’d written this much when he’d been at Hogwarts. He knows what all his brothers are up to. Ginny and Harry come over for drinks nearly every other day. 

Teddy Lupin knows Ron as the _real_ fun uncle. He takes great pride in upstaging Harry each time. It becomes a growing competition, until Hermione bans him from climbing out Teddy’s window to cast a spell that will make snowflakes of different colors fall out. He does it anyway and breaks his ankle. 

Hermione doesn’t speak to him for an entire day. 

It is the worst thing she has ever done. By the evening, she comes up and hugs him. _What is it?_

The tension in him bleeds out, and he changes it to a “Ha! Knew I could get you to talk to me!” 

Her _oh, Ronald!_ is nearly loud enough to mask his thoughts. Because it would have been much, much harder to put the memory of her, lying unconscious on the ground with ‘Mudblood’ carved into her skin, into words and the context of this certain situation. 

He pesters his wife constantly about having children. Hermione has a ten year plan for them. “Sod that,” he protests over dinner. “In ten years, we should have _three_.” 

She laughs and throws a fry in his face, and he tries to catch it out of the air with his mouth. 

He does want children. He wants as many as Hermione is willing to have. He wants them to fill the house with their mess, the way children tend to do. He wants to wake up to his wife moaning about how their son has just broken her favorite vase. He wants to teach his little girl to flip pancakes so high they sometimes stick to the ceiling. 

But if Hermione wants a plan, then they’ll have one. Ron looks for the best child-appropriate broomsticks money can buy. He badgers George into letting him work overtime at the joke shop, and they come up with a million new ideas. 

George never says his name. _Fred_.

Ron has never been one for words. And so he hunches over new product ideas with his brother. Guffaws at the ones that fail, cheers at the ones that work. Highly aware that George is constantly wishing he were a bit taller, hair a little bit flatter, face a little more twin-like. 

For Ron, noise is always good. He knows it well. It is as familiar as his mum’s scrambled eggs in the morning. It sounds like the thundering of Weasley sibling feet pounding their staircases as they descend to the living room. It feels like butterbeer shooting out from Harry’s nose from laughing too hard, Hermione’s giggles ringing the air. It tastes like happiness, like _life_. And when the taste lingers too long, and Hermione’s tortured screams begin to rise from the memory of Malfoy Manor, Ron reaches for another party popper. 

  
  


Ever the contrast, Draco wishes for silence. 

An irrational part of him longs for it for the rest of his life. Each time a passerby bumps him on the street with a muttered, “Excuse me,” he feels his irritation grow. And each time he retreats back to the safety of his one bedroom apartment, he unconsciously breathes a sigh of relief. 

He took the silence for granted. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? You rarely knew of the good things in your life until they’ve faded out. By the time the panging desire hits, it’s disappeared for quite some time already. 

He misses waking up to the sunlight streaming in his room, and coming downstairs to the sight of his mother whisking matcha. He misses Father rolling his eyes at what is easily a house-elf task, and his mother quelling him with a sharp look. She knew how she liked her tea, and she liked doing it on her own. He misses knowing that speaking before 9:30 in the morning is a sin, and that listening to the sound of tea pouring into three cups in silence is simply a part of their routine. 

Now, everything is too loud. Draco wakes to honking, as Muggles struggle to get to work on time at eight in the morning. Each morning, he considers casting a silencing spell and risking the infraction that will no doubt come after him for casting a spell outside of Ministry probation parameters. The ground beneath his feet is always cold, and the fireplace is never on (Incendio is also a banned spell.) 

(That one Draco doesn’t mind as much. He doesn’t think he’ll touch that spell for the rest of his life.) 

His pots and pans clang as he tries to learn how to cook for the first time in his life. His tea comes in packets they sell at the nearby supermarket. He doesn’t have his mother’s bamboo whisk or her matcha powder. It’s possible the Ministry has it. 

Briefly, he entertains the idea of the Ministry inspecting his mother’s tea kit with suspicion. After seizing the Malfoy estate postwar, they must have found several Dark items. Stewing over the idea as he coaxes a fire from the stove (managing not to flinch as it sparks), he hopes that they take an extra long look at her china only to find that it really is just that. 

That’s about as malicious as his thoughts get these days. These days, everything seems to come harder for Draco Malfoy. He’s only just started to figure out muggle money. All he’s managed to learn to cook so far have been eggs. He learns to look for things labeled “microwavable” at the market. 

But he lives alone, and that is a comfort that he does not take for granted. He tries to recreate the morning tea routine, well aware that the other two participants are still in Azkaban. Counting the days until his mother is released. And the days until his father is Kissed. 

The days that he has to go back for his probationary check-in are the worst. The noise increases, both inside and outside of his head. The jeers he gets as he walks through Diagon Alley turn to rough, curt commands when he enters the Ministry. Answering his officer’s questions becomes harder each time, and Draco catches himself manually clutching his hands to stop their trembling. 

And every time — _every single fucking time_ — he makes it back home, he stumbles to his bedroom and places his head between his knees to calm his breathing. The noise at that point is overwhelmingly loud, all of it. 

The sound of tortured screams coming from the dungeons below. The stifled, horrified weeping of his mother the night she finds out he has to take the Mark, much earlier than they had all expected. Goyle’s anguished yells in the midst of Fiendfyre. The low hiss of the Dark Lord’s voice creeping throughout his home, into the crevices of his sunlight-streamed room and his matcha-whisked tea. Crawling into every space, occupying each moment of silence until he cannot ignore it. 

Eventually, his breathing slows. His fingers uncurl from the medium-sized rug he recently purchased. And Draco pulls his sleeve up to look at his Mark. 

It is faded now, but he can still make out every detail. He forces himself to look. Memorize it. And hunched over, sweating and panting, he gathers up the defiance left in him. And he stands. 

The apartment is quiet. 

  
  


Harry feels — well, he’s not really sure how he feels, to be honest. 

A few months after the Battle at Hogwarts, he has a dream. 

He comes to in it slowly, and somehow knows he’s a first year. But his robes are much too large for him. And Malfoy is screaming his head off. Whipping his head around, Harry realizes there is a hooded figure drinking unicorn blood in the Forbidden Forest.

He steps forward, grasping for a wand that doesn’t seem to be there, but the figure turns around. And it is himself. Stubble rising from his chin, hidden by the smears of unicorn blood running down his chin. Glasses slightly cracked. 

He wakes to Ginny’s arms wrapped around his waist, and relaxes in her embrace. She hasn’t realized he’s awake. She’s doing the odd little thing she likes to do in her sleep - tapping his fingers. He lets her, sinking into the feeling of her tapping each finger. _One, two, three, four, five._ Counting it calms him. 

As the next few days pass, the dream comes back to him. It sticks to him like a plague, and follows him through his daily movements. And one morning, sipping his coffee and going through Ron’s letter to him, it dawns on him. 

Harry should be dead. 

It rings deep inside of him, from the pit of his stomach through to the core of his bones, seeping out onto his skin. It is not so much a feeling as it is a knowing. He should be dead. Yet somehow, inexplicably so, he is not. 

The Ministry bullies him into having a press day. He mostly does it because Shacklebolt tells him the public want to thank him. After he receives his Order of Merlin, Harry looks over at the crowd to see a line forming. 

“They’re just going to thank you, and move on.” murmurs Hermione in his ear. 

And they do. Some of them are too in awe to speak, and Harry does his best to smile and shake their hand. Others are crying. They want to tell him stories. 

They ask him if he might have caught a glimpse of their son-daughter-sister-brother-mother-father-friend-cousin-uncle-aunt in the battle. They look pleadingly at Hermione and Ron, who are flanking him. 

_I should be dead_ , Harry tries to say to them. _I should be dead and they should be alive_.

The words are stuck in his throat. Instead, he clutches their hands and lets them move along the line. Every word that isn’t an “I’m sorry,” is a “If there’s anything I can do —” before his publicist interrupts them. 

It is the problem with being hero groomed, he supposes. As Ginny takes his hand and they head home by Floo, he ponders it. Lodged in his chest is the feeling that he has not done _nearly_ enough. 

He can’t explain it. He could hear Ron’s voice, now: _Mate, you killed Voldemort. What more could people ask of you?_

He wants to fix everything, and can’t. People are still dead. Good people. People forced into situations they would never dream of. Narcissa Malfoy, sitting in her cell in Azkaban after he testified for her in court. Colin Creevey, who should not have been there in the first place, and should still be taking photos. Pansy Parkinson, who killed herself six weeks ago and had only been found four weeks ago. 

It thrums in his chest like a metronome. All is well, and yet, somehow, it is not. Harry bangs his head on the cabinet one afternoon and fights off a panic attack at the familiar lance of pain on his forehead. He visits Amos Diggory at the St Oswald’s Home for Old Witches and Wizards for the first time in a while and feels a sense of relief when the man accuses him of not caring about Cedric’s death. 

Ginny finds him fighting breath one night. 

Before he can wave her off and muster up an air of nonchalance, she grasps his face and touches her forehead to his. His hands come to her waist and they sway in their living room until their breathing synces. 

It occurs to him that for seventeen years of his life, he has thought of nothing past defeating Voldemort. And now, oddly enough, that it’s passed — he does not quite know what to do with himself. 

But standing here, holding Ginny and trying to breathe, it feels like he may figure it out.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a bone to pick with JK Rowling about a lot of things. One of them was that before Cursed Child, it seemed like she was going to ignore the transition of these characters plucked from a warlike atmosphere to a “suddenly all is well” one.  
> This fic quite literally wrote itself. I didn’t have to think hard to imagine how each of them might be feeling after the war. But it certainly was not, “All is well.”  
> Ultimately, I wanted to explore how each of them picked up the pieces. How they even started to do something like that. And explore how they struggle with it. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Please leave a comment if you’d like — it always makes my day :)  
> — sam


End file.
